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HACTENUS: 

More droppiflgs from the pen that wrote 

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY, 

A THOUSAND LINES, kt. 



BOSTON: 

CHARLES H. PEIRCE, 

REDDIiNG & CO. 

NEW YORK, BUHGESS, STEINGEH & Cv ., WM. H. 
GRAHAM, AND BURFOED & CO. 

1848. 






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HACTENUS: 

MORE DROPPINGS FROM THE PEN THAT WROTE 

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY," 

"A THOUSAND LINES," &c. &c. &c. 



Thus far : a few of my less faulty flowers, 

Dropped on the highway for the passers by ; 
In grace and charity, good world of ours, 

Leave not the foundlings freezingly to die ; 
They have bloomed thus within my fancy's bowers 

Willing as weeds, — perchance as little worth ; 

Yet have I hoped them not all things of earth j 
For fervently, beneath my flashing pen, 

As quickened sometimes by angelic powers, 
Thoughts have shot out to hit the hearts of men, — 

Whilst on mine own the spirit of life and love 
So winningly hath slied his heavenly showers. 
That my glad songs have filled no toilsome hours, 

But happy moments lent me from above. 



BOSTON: 
CHARLES H. PEIRCE. 

1848. 






^I'i) — 

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PREFACE 



TO THE ENGLISH EDITION 



Some of these poems have already appeared 
fugitively in print — by way of a test, from time 
to time, how they might look, and whether or 
not they would be liked. This, however, is the 
first day of their standard and substantial ex- 
hibition: the whole of the little crop here 
harvested has grown up, among many other 
matters, since the publication of their Author's 
last works, " Probabilities," and '' A Thousand 
Lines ; " and it is hoped that the numerous 
friends who received those Lines with favor, 
will prove equally indulgent to nearly two 
thousand more. 

The three military ballads, Roleia, Waterloo, 
and the Thanks of Parliament, are friendly con- 
tributions to an important work shortly about 



4 PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION. 

to be published, viz., '' A Poetical Illustration 
of the Military and other Achievements of the 
Duke of Wellington, and his Illustrious Com- 
panions in Arms," edited by Major De Renzy. 
It is proper to state that the subjects (being the 
first and the last European victory, and the 
national expression of gratitude to our great 
chieftain for his lifelong exploits) were appro- 
priately suggested by the Editor ; who also 
furnished such references as were necessary to 
add historic truth to poetical conceptions. 



CONTENTS 



Page. 

The New Year, 7 

All's for the Best, 9 

The Riddle Read, 10 

Old Haunts, 12 

The Battle of Roleia, 13 

Retrospect, 17 

Peace and Quietness, 19 

The Early Gallop, 21 

Ascot: June 3, 1847, 23 

Life, 24 

Waterloo, 25 

Are You a Great Reader ? 33 

The Verdict, 34 

Guernsey, 35 

All's Right, 36 

The Complaint of an Ancient Briton, 37 

Farley Heath, 40 

Wisdom, 43 

The Heart's Husband, 44 

Sonnet, 45 

Wheat-corn and Chaff, .46 

The Happy Man, 47 

Heraldic, 48 

The True Epicure, 50 

Threnos, 51 

The Dead, 53 



6 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Sonnets to America, 57 

The Thanks of Parliament toWellington and his Army,. ..60 

Pain, 63 

Three Versions of Adrian's Apostrophe, 64 

No Surrender, 66 

Never Mind, 68 

The Cromlech Du Tus, Guernsey, 70 

My Children, 73 

Henry de B. T., 76 

Errata : an Author's Complaint, 77 

Impromptu, to one who said that she disliked Poetry,... 78 
Venus : a Reply to Longfellow's Poem on Mars, in 

"Voices of the Night," 79 

The Warm, Young Heart, 81 

A Consecration, 82 

The Thanksgiving Hymn and Chant for the Harvest 

Home of 1847, 84 

M. T., 90 

Two Psalms, 91 

Confession, 94 

A Song, 95 

Cheer up, 96 

" Together," 97 

Friends, 98 

A Greeting, 99 

Horace's Philosophy, 100 

The Last Time, 102 

The Poet's Wealth, 105 



HACTENUS 



THE NEW YEAR. 

The old man he is dead, young heir, 

And gone to his long account ; 
Come, stand on his hearth, and sit in his chair, 

And into his saddle mount ! 

The old man's face was a face to be feared, 

But thine both loving and gay ; 
O, who would not choose for that stem white beard 

A bright young cheek alway ? 

The old man he had outlived them all ; 

His friends, he said, were gone ; 
But hundreds are wassailing now in the hall, 

And true friends every one ! 

The old man moaned both sore and long 

Of pleasures past, he said ; 
But pleasures to come are the young heir's song — 

The living, not the dead ! 



yj 



THE NEW YEAR. 

The old man babbled of old regrets — 

Alack ! how much he owed : 
But the young heir has not a feather of debts 

His heart withal to load ! 

The old man used to shudder, and seem 

Remembering secret sin ; 
But the happy young heir is as if in a dream, 

Paradise all within ! 

Alas ! for the old man, — where is he now ? " 

And fear for thyself, young heir ; 
For he was innocent once as thou. 

As ruddy, and blithe, and fair. 

Reap wisdom from his furrowed face, 

Cull counsel from his fear ; 
0, speed thee, young heir, in gifts and in grace, 

And blessings on thee, — New Year ! 



(9) 



ALL'S FOR THE BEST. 

TO THE SAME MUSIC AS " NEVER GIVE UP." 

All's for the best ; be sanguine and cheerful ; 

Trouble and sorrow are friends in disguise ; 
Nothing but Folly goes faithless and fearful ; 

Courage forever is happy and wise : 
All for the best, — if a man would but know it ; 

Providence wishes us all to be blest •, 
This is no dream of the pundit or poet ; 

Heaven is gracious, and — All's for the best ! 

All for the best ! set this on your standard. 

Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love. 
Who to the shores of Despair may have wandered. 

A waywearied swallow, or heartstricken dove : 
All for the best ! — be a man but confiding, 

Providence tenderly governs the rest. 
And the frail bark of His creature is guiding. 

Wisely and warily, all for the best. 

All for the best ! then fling away terrors. 

Meet all your fears and your foes in the van, 
And in the midst of your dangers or errors 

Trust like a child, while you strive like a man : 
All's for the best ! — unbiased, unbounded, 

Providence reigns from the East to the West ; 
And by both wisdom and mercy surrounded, 

Hope and be happy that All's for the best. 



( 10) 



THE RIDDLE READ. 

World of sorrow, care, and change, 

Even to myself I seem. 
As adown thy vale I range, 

Wandering in a dream : 

All things are so strange. 

For the dead who died this day, 

Fair and young, or great and good, 
Though we mourn them, where are they ? 
— With those before the flood ; 
Equally passed away ! 

Living hearts have scantly time 

To feel some other heart most dear, 
Scarce can love the love sublime, 

Unselfishly sincere, — 

Death nips it in its prime ! 

Minds have hardly power to learn 

How much there is to know aright, 
Can dimly through the mist discern 

Some little glimpse of light, — 

The order is. Return ! 



THE RIDDLE READ. 

Willing hands but just begin 

Wisely to work for God and man, 

And some poor wages barely win 
As one who well began, — 
The Master calls, Come in ! 

Well, — this is well ; for well begun 
Is all the good man here may do ; 
He cannot hope to see half done ; 

A furlong is crept through, 

And lo, the goal is won ! 

This is the life of sight and sense. 
And other brighter lives depend 

On all we here can just commence ; 
But long before an end 
God calls his servant hence. 

Take courage, courage : not in vain 

The Ruler hath appointed thus ; 
Account it neither grief nor pain 

His mercy spare th us — 

It is the laborer's gain. 

Here we begin to love and know ; 

And when God's willing grace perceives 
The plant of heaven hath roots to grow, 

He plucks the ranker leaves, 

And doth transplant it so ! 



11 



( 12) 



OLD HAUNTS. 

FOR MUSIC. 

I LOVE to linger on my track 

Wherever 1 have dwelt, 
In after years to loiter back, 

And feel as once I felt ; 
My foot falls lightly on the sward, 

Yet leaves a deathless dint ; 
With tenderness I still regard 

Its unforgotten print. 

Old places have a charm for me 

The new can ne'er attain ; 
Old faces — how I long to see 

Their kindly looks again ! 
Yet these are gone : — while all around 

Is changeable as air, 
ril anchor m the solid ground, 

And root my memories there ! 



(13 



THE BATTLE OF ROLEIA. 

Ye children of the veterans 

Who fought for faithless Spain, 
And for ungrateful Portugal 

Poured out their blood like rain, — 
Come near me, and hear me, 

For I would tell you well 
How gallantly your fathers fought, 

Or gloriously they fell ! 

I sing Roleia's bloody strife, 

The first of many frays. 
When iron Wellesley led us on. 

Invincible always ; 
Roleia gay and evergreen, 

Festooned with vines and flowers, 
Roleia, scorched and blood-bedewed, — 

And half that blood was ours ! 

The seventeenth of August 

It shone out bright and clear, 
And still we pressed the Frenchman's flank. 

And hung upon his rear ; 
From Brilos and Obidos 

Had we driven the bold Laborde, 
And now among the mountain rocks 

We sought him with the sword ! 



14 THE BATTLE OF ROLEIA. 

All golden is the plain with wheat, 

All purple are the hills 
With luscious vineyards ripe and sweet, 

And laced with crystal rills ; 
Yet must the rills run down with gore. 

The corn be trampled red, 
Before Roleia's threshing-floor 

Is glutted with her dead ! 

O, cheerily the bugles spoke, 

And all our hearts beat high. 
When over Monte Junto broke 

The sun upon the sky ; 
Right early from Obidos 

We gladly sallied then, 
A goodly host, in columns three. 

Of fourteen thousand men. 

Brave Ferguson led on the left. 

And Trant the flanking right. 
With iron Arthur in the midst. 

The focus of the fight ; 
And fast by Wellesley's gallant side 

The Craufurd rode amain, 
And Hill, the British soldier's pride. 

And Nightingale, and Fane. 

Crouching like a tiger 

In his high and rocky lair, 
The Frenchman howled and showed his teeth, 

And — wished he wasn't there ; 



THE BATTLE OF ROLEIA. 15 

For Craufurd, Hill, and Nightingale 

Flew at him as he lay, 
And up our gallant fellows sprang 

As bloodhounds on the prey ! 

And look ! we hunt the bold Laborde 

To Zambugeira's height, — 
While Trant, with Fane and Ferguson, 

Outflank him left and right ; 
And then with cheers we charge the front, 

With cheers the foe reply, — 
No child's play was that battle brunt ; 

We swore to win or die ! 

Rattled loud the muskets' roar, — 

We struggled man to man, — 
The rugged rocks were washed in gore, 

With gore the gullies ran ! 
Fiercely through those mountain paths 

Our bloody way we force, — 
And find in strength upon the heights 

The Frenchman, foot and horse. 

Ah, then, my Ninth, and Twenty-ninth, 

Your courage was too hot. 
For down on your disordered ranks 

Secure they pour the shot ; 
But all their horse, and foot, and guns, 

Could never make you fly, — 
The losing Frenchman fights and runs, 

But Britons fight — and die ! 



16 THE BATTLE OF ROLEIA. 

Up to the rescue, Ferguson ! 

And keep the hard-fought hill ; 
Their chiefs are picked off one by one, 

And lo, they rally still ; 
They rally, and rush stoutly on, — 

The bold Laborde gives way, — 
The day is lost ! the day is won ! 

And ours is the day ! 

Then well retreating, sage and slow, 

Alternately in mass, 
With charging horse, the wily foe 

Gains Runa's rocky pass ; 
And left us thus Roleia's field, 

With other fields in store, 
Vimeira, Torres Vedras, 

And half a hundred more ! 



(17) 



RETROSPECT. 



How many years are fled, — 
How many friends are dead ! 

Alas ! how fast 

The past hath passed, — 
How speedily life hath sped ! 

Places, that knew me of yore, 
Know me for theirs no more ; 
And sore at the change 
Quite strange I range 
Where I was at home before. 

Thoughts and things each day 
Seem to be fading away ; 

Yet this is, I wot. 

Their lot to be not 
Continuing in one stay. 

A mingled mesh it seems 
Of facts and fancy's gleams ; 

I scarce have power 

From hour to hour 
To separate things from dreams. 
2 



18 RETROSPECT. 

Darkly, as in a glass, 
Like a vain shadow they pass ; 
Their ways they wend 
And tend to an end, 
The goal of life, alas ! 

Alas ? and wherefore so ? — 
Be glad for this passing show ; 
The world and its lust 
Back must to their dust 
Before the soul can grow. 

Expand, my willing mind, 
Thy nobler life to find, 
Thy childhood leave, 
Nor grieve to bereave 
Thine age of toys behind. 



( 19 ) 



PEACE AND QUIETNESS. 

Peace is the precious atmosphere I breathe ; 

And my calm mind goes to her dewy bower, 
A trelUs rare of fragrant thoughts to wreathe, 

Mingling the scents and tints of every flower : 
For pity, vex her not ; those inner joys 

That bless her in this consecrated hour, 
Start and away, like plovers, at a noise. 
Sensitive, timorous : — O, do not scare 

My happy fancies, lest the flock take wing, 
Fly to the wilderness, and perish there ! 

For I have secret luxuries, that bring 
Gladness and brightness to mine eyes and heart. 

Memory, and Hope, and keen Imagining, 
Sweet thoughts and peaceful, never to depart. 

Then give me Silence ; for my spirit is rare, 
Of delicate edge, and tender, when I think 

I rear aloft a mental fabric fair ; 

But soon as words come hurtling on the air, 
Down to this dust my ruined fancies sink : 
Look you ! on yonder Alp's precipitous brink 

An avalanche is tottermg ; — one breath 
Loosens an icy chain ; — it falls, — it falls. 

Filling the buried glens and glades with death ! 
Or as, when on the mountain's granite walls 



20 PEACE AND QUIETNESS. 

The hunter spies a chamois, — hush ! be calm, 
A word will scare it, — even so, my Mind, 

Creative, energizing, seeks the balm 
Of Quiet ; Solitude and Peace combined. 



I 



(21 ) 



THE EARLY GALLOP. 

■VTRITTEN IN THE 8ADBLE, ON THE CBOWN OP MY BAT. 

At five on a dewy morning, 

Before the blazmg day, 
To be up and off on a high-mettled horse 

Over the hills away, — 
To drink the rich, sweet breath of the gorse, 

And bathe in the breeze of the Downs, 
Ha ! man, if you can, match bliss like this 

In all the joys of towns ! 

With glad and grateful tongue to join 

The lark at his matin hymn, 
And thence on faith's own wing to spring 

And sing with Cherubim ! 
To pray from a deep and tender heart, 

With all things praying anew. 
The birds and the bees, and the whispering trees. 

And heather bedropped with dew, — 
To be one with those early worshippers, 

And pour the paean too ! 

Then, off again with a slackened rein, 

And a bounding heart within. 
To dash at a gallop over the plain. 

Health's golden cup to win ! 



22 THE EARLY GALLOP. 

This, this is the race for gain and grace, 
Richer than vases and crowns ; 

And you that boast your pleasures the most 
Amid the steam of towns, 

Come, taste true bliss in a morning like this, 
Galloping over the Downs ! 



(23) 



ASCOT: JUNE 3, 1847; WHEN HERO WON. 



Modern Olympia ! shorn of all their pride — 
The patriot spirit, and unlucred praise — 
Thou art a type of these degenerate days, 

When love of simple honor all hath died ; 

O, dusty, gay, and eager multitude. 

Agape for gold — No ! do not thus condemn, 

For hundreds here are innocent, and good, 

And young, and fair, among — but not of — them ; 

And hundreds more enjoy with gratitude 

This well-earned holiday, so bright and green : 
Do not condemn ! it is a stirring scene. 

Though vanity and folly fill it up : 

Look, how the mettled racers please the Queen ! 

Ha, brave John Day — a Hero wins the cup ! . 



(34) 



LIFE. 

A BUSY dream, forgotten ere it fades, 

A vapor, melting into air away. 
Vain hopes, vain fears, a mesh of lights and shades, 

A checkered labyrinth of night and day, — 
This is our life ; a rapid, surgy flood, 

Where each wave hunts its fellow : on they press 
To-day is yesterday, and hope's young bud 

Has fruited a to-morrow's nothingness : 
Still on they press, and we are borne along, 

Forgetting and forgotten, trampling down 
The living and the dead in that fierce throng. 

With little heed of Heaven's smile or frown, 
And little care for others' right or wrong, 

So we in iron selfishness stand strong. 



(25) 



WATERLOO. 



THERMOPYLiE and Cannse 

Were glorious fields of yore, 
Leonidas and Hannibal 

Right famous evermore ; 
But we can claim a nobler name, 

A field more glorious too, 
The chief who thus achieved for us 

Victorious Waterloo. 

Let others boast of Caesar's host. 

Led on by Csesar's skill, 
And how fierce Attila could rout, 

And Alaric could kill, — 
But we — right well, O hear me tell 

What British troops can do. 
When marshalled by a Wellington 

To win a Waterloo ! 

O for a Pindar's harp to tune 
The triumphs of that day ! 

for a Homer's pictured words 
To paint the fearful fmy ! — 
3 



26 AVATERLOO. 

Alas ! my tongue and harp illstrung, 

In feeble tones and few, 
Hath little skill — yet right good will 

To sing of Waterloo. 

Then gather round, my comrades. 

And hear a soldier tell 
How full of honor was the day 

When — every man did well ! 
And though a soldier's speech be rough, 

His heart is hot and true 
While thus he tells of Wellington 

At hard-fought Waterloo. 

Sublimely calm, our iron Duke — 

A lion in his lair — 
Waited and watched with sleepless eye 

To see what France would dare. 
Nor deigned to stir from Brussels 

Until he surely knew 
The foe was rushing on his fate 

At chosen Waterloo. 

What ! should the hunter waste his strength, 

Nor hold his good hounds back, 
Before he knows they near the foes 

And open on the track ? 
No : let " surprise " blight Frenchmen's eyes, 

For truly they shall rue 
The giant skill that, stern and still. 

Drew them to Waterloo ! 



WATERLOO. 

Hotly the couriers gallop up 

To Richmond's festive scene, — 
Alone, alone the chieftain stood, 

Undaunted and serene ; 
Ready, ready, — stanch and steady, — 

And forth the orders flew 
That marched us off to Quatre Bras, 

And whelming Waterloo. 

Begin, begin with Quatre Bras, 

That twinborn field of fame. 
Where many a gallant deed was done 

By many a gallant name, — 
That battle-field, which seemed to yield 

An earnest and review 
Of all that British courage dared 

And did at Waterloo. 

We heard from far old Blucher's guns. 

At Ligny's blazing street. 
And hurried on to Weimar's aid. 

Right glad the foe to meet ; 
A score of miles to Quatre Bras ; 

But still to arms we stood. 
And cheerly rushed, without a pause. 

To win the Boissy wood. 

Then, just like cowards, three to one. 

Before we could deploy. 
To crush us, Ney and Excelmans 

Flew down with fiendish joy ; 



2? 



28 WATERLOO. 

But stout we stood in hollow squares, 
And fought, and kept the ground. 

While lancer spears and cuirassiers 
Were charging us all round. 

Ay, ay, my men, we battled then 

Like wolves and bears at bay. 
And thousands there among the dead 

With sable Bnmswick lay : 
And back to back in that attack 

The Ninety-second fought, — 
And " steadily " the Twenty-eighth 

Behaved as Britons ought. 

Then up came Maitland with the Guards, 

Hurrah ! they clear the wood, — 
But still the furious Frenchman charged. 

And still we stoutly stood, 
Till gentle night drew on, and that 

Drew off the treacherous Ney, 
For when the morning dimly broke 

— The fox had stole away ! 

Thus much, my lads, for Quatre Bras ; 

And now for Waterloo, 
Where skill and courage did it all. 

With God's good help in view ! 
For we were beardless, raw recruits. 

And they, more numerous far. 
Were fierce, mustachioed, mighty men, 

The veterans of war. 



WATEELOO. 29 

The God of battles helped us soon, 

As godless France drew nigh, 
— It was the great eighteenth of June, 

The sun was getting high ; — 
And suddenly two hundred guns. 

At once, with thundering throats. 
Pealed out their dreadful overture 

In deep volcano notes ! 

Then, by ten thousands, horse and foot, 

Came on the foaming Gaul, 
And still with bristling front we stood 

As solid as a wall ; 
And stout Macdonnell's Hougoumont, 

The centre of the van. 
Was stormed, and stormed, and stormed — in vain 

— He held it like a man ! 

O, who can count the myriad deeds 

That hundreds did in fight? 
Ponsonby falls and Picton bleeds, 

And — both are quenched in night : 
And many a hero subaltern, 

And hero private too, 
Beat Ajax and Achilles both 

In winning Waterloo ! 

What shall I say, on that dread day, 

Of Ferrier and his band ? 
Ten times he chased the foes away, 

And charged them sword in hand ; 



30 WATERLOO. 

Six of those ten he led his men 
With blood upon his brow, — 

And weakly in the eleventh died 
To live in glory now ! 

Or give a stave to Shaw the brave, 

— In death the hero sleeps, — 
Hemmed by a score, he knocked them o'er, 

And hewed them down in heaps ; 
Till, wearied out, the lion stout. 

Beset as by a pack 
Of hungry hounds, fell full of wounds, 

But none upon his back ! 

Thee too, De Lancey, generous chief, 

For thee a niche be found, — 
Wounded to death, he scorned relief 

Whilst others bled around ; 
And D'Oyley and Fitzgerald died. 

Just as the day was won, — 
And Gordon, by his general's side — 

The side of Wellington ! 

And Somerset and Uxbridge then 

Gave each a limb to death ; 
Curzon and Canning cheered their men 

With their last dying breath ; 
And gallant Miller, stricken sore. 

With fainting utterance cries, 
" Bring me my colors ! wave them o'er 

Your colonel till he dies ! " 



WATERLOO. 31 

Then furious waxed the emperor 

That Britons wouldn't run ; 
" Les betes, pourquoi ne fuient lis pas ? 

Et done, ce Vellington ! " 
But Vellington still holds his own 

For eight red hours and more ; 
" Why comes not Marshal Blucher down ? — 

Ha ! there's his cannons' roar. 

" Up, Guards, and at them ! charge ! " — the word 

Like forked lightning passes, 
And lance, and bayonet, and sword, 

Rush on in glittering masses. 
Back, back, the surging columns roll 

In terrified dismay. 
And onward shout, against the rout, 

The conquerors of the day. 

O, now the tide of battle 

Is turned to seas of blood ; 
When case and grape shot rattle 

Among the multitude, 
And Fates, led on by Furies, 

Destroy the flying host, 
And Chaos, mated with Despair, 

Makes all the lost most lost. 

Woe, woe, thou caitiflf-hero ! 

Thou emperor — and slave ! 
Why didst not thou, too, nobly bleed 

With those devoted brave ? 



WATERLOO. 

No, no ; the coward's thought was self. 
And " Sauve qui peut " his cry ; 

And verily at Waterloo 
Did Great Napoleon die. 

He died to fame, while yet his name 

Was on ten thousand tongues 
That trusted him, and prayed to him, 

And — cursed him for their wrongs ! 
O noble souls. Imperial Guard ! 

Had your chief been but true, 
Ye would have stood and stopped the rout 

At crushing Waterloo. 

Still, as they fled from Wellington, 

To Blucher's arms they flew ; 
These two made up the Quatre Bras, 

To clutch a Waterloo. 
Ha ! Blucher's Prussian vengeance 

Was fully sated then. 
When hated France upon the field 

Left forty thousand men. 

Thus, comrades, hath a soldier told 

What Wellington's calm skill. 
When helped by troops of British mould, 

And God's almighty will, 
Against a veteran triple force, 

In battle-field can do : 
Then three times three for Wellington, 

The prince of Waterloo ! 



(33) 



"ARE YOU A GREAT READER? 



I HOPE to ripen into richer wine 

Than mixed Falernian : those decantered streams 
Poured from another's chaUce into thine, 

Make less of wisdom than the scholar dreams ; 
Precept on precept, tedious line on line. 

That never-thinking, ever-reading plan. 

Fashion some patchwork garments for a man, 
But starve his mind : it starves of too much meat — 

An undigested surfeit. As for me, 
I am untamed — a spirit free and fleet, 

That cannot brook the studious yoke, nor be 

Like some dull, grazing ox, without a soul ; 
But, feeling racer's shoes upon my feet, 

Before my teacher starts, I touch the goal. 



(34) 



THE VERDICT. 



I LEAVE all judgments to that better world 

And my more righteous Judge ; for He shall tell. 
In the dread day when from their thrones are hurled 

Each human tyranny and earthly spell, 

That which alone of all He knoweth well — 
The heart's own secret : He shall tell it out, 

With all the feelings and the sorrows there, — 
The fears within, the foes that hemmed without, 

Neglect, and wrong, and calumny, and care ; 

For he hath saved thine every tearful prayer 
In His own lachrymal, and noted down 

Each unconsidered grief with tenderest love : 
Look up ; beyond the cross behold the crown, 

And for all wrongs below all rights above. 



(35) 



GUERNSEY. 



Guernsey ! to me and in my partial eyes 

Thou art a holy and enchanted isle, 

Where I would linger long, and muse the while 
Of ancient thoughts and solemn memories, 

Quickening the tender tear or pensive smile : 
Guernsey ! for nearly thrice a hundred years 
Home of my fathers, refuge from their fears, 

And haven to their hope, when long of yore 
Fleeing imperial Charles and bloody Rome, 

Protestant martyrs, to thy sea-girt shore 
They came to seek a temple and a home, 

And found thee generous, — I, their son, would pour 
My heartfuU all of praise and thanks to thee, 
Island of welcomes, friendly, frank, and free ! 



(36) 



ALL'S RIGHT. 



FOR MUSIC. 



O, NEVER despair at the troubles of life ; 

All's right ! 
In the midst of anxiety, peril, and strife, 

All's right ! 
The cheerful philosophy never was wrong 
That ever puts this on the tip of my tongue, 
And makes it my glory, my strength, and my song, 

All's right ! 

The Pilot beside us is steering us still ; 

All's right! 
The Champion above us is guarding from ill ; 

All's right ! 
Let others who know neither Father nor Friend 
Go trembling and doubting in fear to the end ; 
For me, on this motto I gladly depend — 

All's right ! 



( 37 



THE COMPLAINT OF AN ANCIENT BRITON, 

DISINTERRED BY ARCH^OLOGISTS. 

Two thousand years agone 

They heaped my battle-grave, 
And each a tear, and each a stone, 

My mourning warriors gave ; 
For I had borne me well. 

And fought as patriots fight. 
Till, like a British chief, I fell 

Contending for the right. 
Seamed with many a wound. 

All weakly did I lie ; 
My foes were dead or dying round, — 

And thus I joyed to die ! 
For their marauding crew 

Came treacherously to kill, — 
The many came against the few 

To storm our sacred hill. 
We battled, and we bled, 

We won, and paid the price. 
For I, the chief, lay down with the dead 

A willing sacrifice ! 
My liegemen wailed me long. 

And treasured up my bones. 



38 THE COMPLAINT OF AN ANCIENT BRITON. 

And reared my kist secure and strong 

With tributary stones : 
High on the breezy down, 

My native hill's own breast, 
Nigh to the din of mine ancient town, 

They left me to my rest. 
I hoped for peace and calm 

Until my judgment hour. 
And then to awake for the victor's palm 

And patriot's throne of power ! 
And lo, till this dark day. 

Did men my grave revere ; 
Two thousand years had posted away, 

And still I slumbered here : 
But now, there broke a noise 

Upon my silent home ; 
'Twas not the Resurrection voice 

That burst my turfy tomb, — 
But men of prying mind — 

Alas ! my fellow -men — 
Ravage my grave, my bones to find. 

With sacrilegious ken ! 
Mine honor doth abjure 

Your new barbarian race ; 
Restore, restore my bones secure 

To some more secret place ! 
With mattock and with spade 

Ye dare to break my rest ; 
The pious mound is all unmade 

My clan had counted blest : 



THE COMPLAINT OF AN ANCIENT BRITON. 39 

Take, take my buckler's boss, 

My sword, and spear, and chain, — 
Steal all ye can of this world's dross. 

But — rest my bones again ! 
I know your modem boast 

Is light, and learning's spread, — 
Learn of a Celt to show them most 

In honor to the Dead ! 



( 40 



FARLEY HEATH. 

Many a day have I whiled away 

Upon hopeful Farley heath, 
In its antique soil digging for spoil 

Of possible treasure beneath ; 
For Celts, and querns, and funereal urns, 

And rich red Samian ware, 
And sculptured stones, and centurion's bones 

May all lie buried there ! 

How calmly serene and glad have 1 been 

From morn till eve to stay. 
My Surrey serfs turning the turfs 

The happy livelong day ; 
With eye still bright, and hope yet alight, 

Wistfully watching the mould 
As the spade brings up fragments of things 

Fifteen centuries old ! 

Pleasant and rare it was to be there 

On a joyous day of June, 
With the circling scene, all gay and green, 

Steeped in the silent noon ; 
When beauty distils from the calm, glad hills, 

From the downs and dimpling vales, 
And every grove, lazy with love, 

Whispereth tcnderest tales ! 



FARLEY HEATH. 41 

O, then to lOok back upon Time's old track, 

And dream of the days long past, 
When Rome leant here on his sentinel spear, 

And loud was the clarion's blast — 
As wild and shrill from Martyr's hill 

Echoed the patriot-shout, 
Or rushed pellmell with a midnight yell 

The rude barbarian rout ! 

Yes, every stone has a tale of its own — 

A volume of old lore ; 
And this white sand from many a brand 

Has polished gouts of gore, 
When Holmbury height had its beacon light. 

And Cantii held old Leith, 
And Rome stood then with his iron men 

On ancient Farley heath ! 

How many a group of that exiled troop 

Have here sung songs of home. 
Chanting aloud to a wondering crowd 

The glories of old Rome ! 
Or, lying at length, have basked their strength 

Amid this heather and gorse. 
Or down by the well, in the larch-grown dell, 

Watered the black war-horse ! 

Look, look ! my daydream right ready would seem 
The past with the present to join, — 

For see ! I have found in this rare ground 
An eloquent green old coin, 
4 



42 FARLEY HEATH. 

With turquoise rust on its emperor's bust, — 

Some Caesar, august lord, — 
And the legend terse, and the classic reverse, 
- " Victory, valor's reward ! — " 

Victory, — yes ! and happiness. 

Kind comrade, to me and to you, 
When such rich spoil has crowned our toil, 

And proved the daydream true ; 
With hearty acclaim how we hailed by his name 

The Csesar of that coin, 
And told with a shout his titles out, 

And drank his health in wine ! 

And then how blest the noonday rest. 

Reclined on a grassy bank. 
With hungry cheer and the brave old beer. 

Better than Odin drank ; 
And the secret balm of the spirit at calm. 

And poetry, hope, and health, — 
Ay, have I not found in that rare ground 

A mine of more than wealth ? 



(43 ) 



WISDOM. 



It is the way we go, the way of life ; 

A drop of pleasure in a sea of pain, 
A grain of peace amid a load of strife, 

With toil and grief, and grief and toil again : 
Yea : — but for this ; the firm and faithful breast, 

Bolder than lions, confident and strong. 
That never doubts its birthright to be blest, 

And dreads no evil while it does no wrong : 
This, this is wisdom, manful and serene ; 

Towards God all penitence, and prayer, and trust ; 
But to the troubles of this shifting scene 

Simply courageous and sublimely just ; ^ 

Be then such wisdom thine, my heart within, — / 

There is no foe, nor woe, nor grief, but — Sin. ^ 



(44) 



THE HEART'S HUSBAND. 



FOR MUSIC. 



Go, leave me to weep for the years that are past, 

For my youth, and its friends, and its pleasures all 
dead; 
My spring and my summer are fading too fast, 

And I long to live over the days that are fled ; 
It is not for sorrows or sins on my track 

That I mournfully cast my fond yearnings behind : 
Ah, no, — from affection I love to look back : 

It is only my Heart that has wedded my Mind. 

And still, let the Mind that has married a Heart, 

Though loving, be strong as a King in his pride, 
And ever command that all weakness depart 

From the realm that he rules in the soul of his bride ; 
For what if all time and all pleasures decay ? 

My Mind is myself, an invincible chief, — 
Like a child's broken toys are the years passed away, 

And my Heart, half ashamed, has forgotten her grief. 



(45) 



PROPHETS. 



Prophets at home, — I smile to note your wrongs : 

How scantly praised at each ancestral hearth 
Are ye, caressed by million hearts and tongues. 

And full of honors over half the earth ! 
O, petty jealousies and paltry strife ! 

The little minds that chronicle a birth 
Stood once for teachers in the task of life ; 

But, as the child of genius grew apace. 
Dismayed at his gigantic lineaments. 

They feared to find his glory their disgrace, 
His mind their master : so their worldly aim 
Is still to vex him with discouragements, 
To check the springtide budding of his fame, 
And keep it down, to save tliemselves a name. 



(4G ) 



WHEAT-CORN AND CHAFF. 



My little learning fadeth fast away, 

And all the host of words, and forms, and rules, 
Bred in my teeming youth of books and schools, 
Dwindle to less and lighter ; night and day 
I dream of tasks undone, and lore forgot. 

Seeming some sailor in the " ship of fools," 
Some debtor owing what he cannot pay, 
Some Conner of old themes remembered not : 
Despise such small oblivion ; 'tis the lot 

Of human life, amid its chance and change, 
To learn, and then unlearn ; to seek and find. 

And then to lose familiars grown quite strange , 
Store up, store wisdom's com in heart and mind, 
But fling the chaff on every winnowing wind. 



(47 ) 



THE HAPPY MAN. 

A MAN of no regrets, 

He goes his sunny way, 
Owing the past no load of debts 

The present cannot pay : 
He wedded his first love, 

Nor loved another since ; 
He sets his nobler hopes above ; 

He reigns in joy a prince ! 

A man of no regrets. 

He hath no cares to vex, 
No secret griefs, nor mental nets, 

Nor troubles to perplex : 
Forgiveness to his sin. 

And help in every need. 
Blessings around, and peace within, 

Crown him a king indeed ! 

A man of no regrets. 

Upon his empire free 
The sun of gladness never sets, — 

Then who so rich as he ? 
Yea, God upon my heart 

Hath poured all blessings down ; 
Then yield to Him, with all thou art, 

The homage of thy crown ! 



(48) 



HERALDIC. 



High in Battle's antlered hall, 
Ancient as its Abbey wall, 
Hangs a helmet, brown with rust, 
Cobwebbed o'er, and thick in dust ; 
High it hangs, 'mid pikes and bows, 
Scowling still at spectral foes, 
Proud and stern, with vizor down. 
And fearful in its feudal frown. 

When I saw what ailed thee, heart. 
Wherefore should I stop, and start ? — 
That old helm, with that old crest, 
Is more to me than all the rest ; 
Battered, broken, though it be. 
That old helm is all to me. 

Yon black greyhound know I well ; 
Many a tale hath it to tell, 
How, in troublous times of old, 
Sires of mine, with bearing bold. 
Bearing bold, but much mischance, 
Swayed the sword or poised the lance. 
Much mischance, desponding still, 
They fought and fell, foreboding ill ; 



HERALDIC. 49 

And their scallop, gules with blood, 

Fessed amid the azure flood. 

Showed the pilgrim, slain afar 

Over the sea in Holy War ; 

While that faithful greyhound black 

Vainly watched the wild boar's track, 

And the legend and the name 

Proved all lost but hope and fame, — 

Tout est perdu, fors I'honneur, 

Mais " VEspoir est ma forced'' sans peur. 



(50) 



THE TRUE EPICURE. 



How saidst thou ? Pleasure ? Why, my life is pleasure ; 

My days are pleasantness, my nights are peace ; 

I drink of joys which neither cloy nor cease — 
A well that gushes blessings without measure ; 

Ah ! thou hast little heed how rich and glad. 
How happy, is my soul in her full treasure, 

How seldom but for honest pity sad, 

How constantly at calm ! My very cares 

Are sweetness in my cup, as being sent ; 
And country quiet, and retired leisure. 

Keep me from half the common fears and snares ; 

And I have learnt the wisdom of content ; 
Yea, and to crown the cup of peace with praise. 
Both God and man have blessed my works and ways. 



( 51 ) 



THRENOS. 

Vanity, vanity ! dead hopes and fears, 
Dinm, flitting phantoms of departed years, 
Unsatisfying shadows, vague and cold. 
Of thoughts and things that made my joys of old, 
Sad memories of the kindly words, and ways, 
And looks, and loves, of friends in other days, — 
Alas ! all gone, — a dream, a very dream, 
A dream is all you are, and all you seem. 

life, I do forget thee ! I look back, 

And lo ! the desert wind has swept my track ; 

1 stand upon this bare and solid ground. 
And, strangely wakened, wonder all around ; 
How came I here ? and whence ? and whither tend r 
Speak, friend — if death and time have spared a 

friend ; 
Behold, the place that knew me well of yore 
Knoweth me not ; and that familiar floor, 
Where all my kith and kin were won' to meet, 
Is now grown strange, and thronged by other feet 

O soul, my soul, consider thou that spot, 
Root there thy gratitude, and leave it not ; 
Still let remembrance, with a swimming eye. 
Live in those rooms, nor pass them coldly by ; 



52 THRENOS. 

Still let affection cling to those old days, 

And, yearning fondly, paint them bright with praise. 

O once my home, with all thy blessings fled, 

O forms and faces gathered to the dead, 

O scenes of joy and sorrow, faded fast. 

How hollow sound thy footsteps, ghostlike Past ! 

An aching emptiness is all thou art, 

A famine hid within the caverned heart. 

Thou changeless One, how blest to have no change ! 

Only with Thee, my God, I feel not strange ; 

Thou art the same forever and for aye ; 

To-morrow and to-day, as yesterday, 

Thou art the same — a tranquil Present still ; 

There I can hide, and bless Thy sovereign will ; 

Yea, bless Thee, O my Father, that Thy love 

Called in an instant to the bliss above. 

From ills to come, and grief, and care, and fear, 

Thy type to me, most honored and most dear. 

O true and tender spirit, pure and good, 

So vexed on earth and little understood, 

Thy gentle nature was not fit for strife. 

But quailed to meet the waking woes of life ; 

And therefore God, our Father, kindly made 

Thy sleep a death, lest thou shouldst feel afraid. 



(53) 



THE DEAD. 



A DIRGE. 



I LOVE the dead — 
The precious spirits gone before, 
And waiting on that peaceful shore, 
To meet with welcome looks, 

and kiss me yet once more. 

I love the dead ; 
And fondly doth my fancy paint 
Each dear one, washed from earthly taint ; 
By patience and by hope 

made a most gentle saint. 

O glorious dead ! 
Without one spot upon the dress 
Of your ethereal loveliness, 
Ye linger round me still, 

with earnest will to bless. 

Enfranchised dead ! 
Each fault and failing left behind, 
And nothing now to chill or bind. 
How gloriously ye reign 

in majesty of mind ! 



54 THE DEAD. 

royal dead ! 

The resting, free, unfettered dead, 
The yearning, conscious, holy dead, 
The hoping, waiting, calm, 

the happy, changeless dead ! 

1 love the dead ! 
And well forget their little ill. 
Eager to bask my memory still 

In all their best of words, 

and deeds, and ways, and will. 

I bless the dead ! 
Their good, half choked by this world's weeds. 
Is blooming now in heavenly meads, 
And ripening golden fruit 

of all those early seeds. 

I trust the dead ! 
They understand me frankly now ; 
There are no clouds on heart or brow. 
But spirit, reading spirit, 

answereth glow for glow. 

I praise the dead ! 
All their tears are wiped away, 
Their darkness turned to perfect day — 
How blessed are the dead, 

how beautiful be they ! 



THE DEAD. 55 

O gracious dead ! 
That watch me from your paradise 
With happy, tender, starUke eyes, 
Let your sweet influence rain 

me blessings from the skies. 

Yet, helpless dead, 
Vainly my yearning nature dares 
Such unpremeditated prayers ; — 
All vain it were for them ; 

as even for me theirs. 

Immortal dead ! 
Ye in your lot are fixed as fate, 
And man or angel is too late 
To beckon back by prayer 

one change upon your state 

O godlike dead. 
Ye that do rest, like Noah's dove, 
Fearless I leave you to the love 
Of Him who gave you peace, 

to bear with you above ! 

And ye, the dead. 
Godless on earth, and gone astray, 
Alas ! your hour is passed away : 
The Judge is just ; for you 

it now were sin to pray. 



56 THE DEAD. 

Still, all ye dead, 
First may be last and last be first, — 
Charity counteth no man curst. 
But hopeth still in Him 

whose love would save the worst. 

Therefore, ye dead, 
I love you, be ye good or ill. 
For God, our God, doth love me still. 
And you He loved on earth 

with love that nought could chill. 

And some, just dead. 
To me on earth most deeply dear. 
Who loved, and nursed, and blessed me here, 
I love you with a love 

that casteth out all fear. 

Come near me. Dead ! 
In spirit come to me, and kiss — 
No ! I must wait awhile for this : 
A few, few years or days, 

and I too feed on bliss ! 



(57) 



TO AMERICA. 

I. 
Columbia, child of Britain, — noblest child ! 

I praise the growing lustre of thy worth, 
And fain would see thy great heart reconciled 

To love the mother of so blest a birth : 
For we are one, Columbia ! still the same 
In lineage, language, laws, and ancient fame, 

The natural nobility of earth : 
Yes, we are one ; the glorious days of yore. 
When dear old England earned her storied name, 
Are thine as well as ours forevermore ; 

And thou hast rights in Milton e'en as we ; 
Thou too canst claim " sweet Shakspeare's wood- 
notes wild ; " — 

And chiefest, brother, we are both made free, 
Of one religion, pure and undefiled ! 



I blame thee not, as other some have blamed, — 

The highborn heir had grown to man's estate ; 
I mock thee not, as some who should be shamed. 

Nor ferret out thy faults with envious hate ; 
Far otherwise ; by generous love inflamed, 

Patriot, I praise my country's foreign son, 
Rejoicing in the blaze of good and great 

That diadems thy head ! — go on, go on, 



58 TO AMERICA. 

Young Hercules, thus travelling in might, 
Boy-Plato, filling all the West with light. 

Thou new Themistocles for enterprise. 
Go on and prosper, acolyte of fate ! 

And, precious child, dear Ephraim, turn those eyes, — 
For thee thy Mother's yearning heart doth wait. 

III. 
Let aged Britain claim the classic Past, 

A shining track of bright and mighty deeds ; 
For thee I prophesy the Future vast, 

Whereof the Present sows its giant seeds : 
Corruption and decay come thick and fast 

O'er poor old England ; yet a few dark years 
And we must die as nations died of yore ! 
But, in the millions of thy teeming shore. 

Thy patriots, sages, warriors, saints, and seers. 
We live again, Columbia ! yea, once more 

Unto a thousand generations live. 

The mother in the child ; to all the West 

Through thee shall we earth's choicest blessings give. 
E'en as our Orient world in us is blessed. 

IV. 

Thou noble scion of an ancient root. 

Born of the forest-king ! spread forth, spread forth, — 
High to the stars thy tender leaflets shoot. 

Deep dig thy fibres round the ribs of earth ! 

From sea to sea, from south to icy north, 
It must erelong be thine, through good or ill, 



TO AMERICA. 59 

To Stretch thy sinewy boughs. Go, wondrous child ! 
The glories of thy destiny fulfil ; — 

Remember, then, thy mother in her age, 
Shelter her in the tempest, warring wild, 

Stand thou with us when all the nations rage 
So furiously together ! — we are one : 

And, through all time, the calm historic page 
Shall tell of Britain blessed in thee her son. 



(60 ) 



THE THANKS OF PARLIAMENT TO 
WELLINGTON AND HIS ARMY. 

OuTSPAKE a nation's voice, 

Concentred in her king, 
While cannons roar, and hearts rejoice. 

And all the steeples ring. 

Outspake old England then, 
By prelates and by peers ; 

By all her best and wisest men, 
Her sages and her seers — 

Old England and her pair 
Of sisters, north and west. 

The comely graces, fresh and fair. 
Who charm the world to rest. 

All honor to the brave ! 

The living and the dead. 
Who only fought to bless and save. 

And crush the hydra's head. 

All honor and all thanks 

To eveiy mother's son, 
Saxon, or Celt, or Gael, or Manx, 

Who fought with Wellington ! 



THANKS OF PARLIAMENT. 61 

For heroes were they all, 

To conquer or to die, 
By Ahmednuggra's bastioned wall, 

Or desperate Assye ; — 

And, heroes still, they strive 

Against the dangerous Dane, 
When France stirred up the northern hive, 

To sting us on the main ; — 

All heroes, heroes still, 

For Lusitania's right ; 
By red Roleia's hard-fought hill, 

And Vimiera's fight ; — 

And stout the heroes stood 

On Talavera's day ; 
And wrote their conquering names in blood, 

At Salamanca's fray ; — 

Still heroes, on they went 

O'er Cuidad's gory fosse. 
And stern Sebastian's battlement, 

And thundering Badajoz ; — 

And, heroes ever, taught 

Old Soult to fly and yield. 
Shouting " Victory" as they fought 

On red Vittoria's field ; — 



THANKS OF PARLIAMENT. 

And, heroes aye, they flew 
To Orthez, conquering yet ; 

Until, at whelming Waterloo, 
The Frenchman's sun had set ! 

Then thanks ! thou glorious chief, 
And thanks ! ye gallant band. 

Who, under God, to man's relief, 
Stretched out the saving hand ; — 

All Britain thanks you well. 
By peasant, peer, and king ; 

To all who fought for us, or fell, 
Immortal honors bring ! 

Peal fast the merry chime, 

And bid the cannon roar 
In praise of heroes, whom all time 

Shall cherish evermore ! 



(63) 



PAIN. 



Delay not, sinner, till the hour of pain 

To seek repentance : pain is absolute, 
Exacting all the body and the brain. 

Humanity's stern king from head to foot : 

How canst thou pray while fevered arrows shoot 
Through this torn targe, — while every bone doth ache, 

And the scared mind raves up and down her cell 
Restless, and begging rest for mercy's sake ? 

Add not to death the bitter fears of hell ; 

Take pity on thy future self, poor man. 

While yet in strength thy timely wisdom can, — 
Wrestle to-day with sin ; and spare that strife 

Of meeting all its terrors in the van, 
Just at the ebbing agony of life. 



(64) 



THREE VERSIONS OF ADRIAN'S 
APOSTROPHE. 



Animula, vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
Quse nunc abibis in loca ? 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos ? 

I. 
Pleasant little fluttering sprite, 

Long my bosom's merry guest. 
Whither now to wing thy flight ? 
Ah ! thou frozen little wight. 

Pale, and naked, and unblest. 

Nevermore a gibe or jest ? 

II. 
Soft little butterfly-guest of my heart. 

Whither now flittest thou, spirit of mine ? 
Woe, — for thy merriment must it depart. 

Naked, and frigid, and pallid, to pine ? 

III. 
Soul, thou tiny truant dear, 
Bosom friend for many a year, 



Restless little darling, say, 
Whither stealest thou away ? 

Pallid as a fainting maid. 
Naked, icy-cold, afraid, 
Is then all thy wit in vain, — 
Shalt thou never laugh again 



65 



J 



(66 ) 



NO SURRENDER. 

FOR MUSIC. 

Ever constant, ever true, 

Let the word be, No surrender ; 

Boldly dare and greatly do ! 

This shall bring us bravely through ; 
No surrender. No surrender ! 

And though Fortune's snniiles be few, 

Hope is always springing new. 

Still inspiring me and you 

With a magic — No surrender ! 

Nail the colors to the mast, 

Shouting gladly. No surrender ! 
Troubles near are all but past — 
Serve them as you did the last ; 
No surrender. No surrender ! 
Though the skies be overcast, 
And upon the sleety blast 
Disappointments gather fast. 

Beat them off with. No surrender ! 

Constant and courageous still, 
Mind, the word is, No surrender ; 



NO SURRENDEB. 67 

Battle, though it be uphill, 
Stagger not at seeming ill ; 

No surrender. No surrender I 
Hope, — and thus your hope fulfil, — 
There's a way where there's a will. 
And the way all cares to kill 

Is to give them — No surrender 1 



(68) 



NEVER MIND. 



FOR MUSIC. 



Soul, be strong, whatever betide ; 
God himself is Guard and Guide, — 
With my Father at my side, 
Never mind ! 

Clouds and darkness hover near. 
Men's hearts failing them for fear, 
But be thou of right good cheer ; 
Never mind ! 

Come what may, some work is done 
Praise the Father through the Son ; 
Goals are gained and prizes won ; 
Never mind ! 

And if now the skies look black. 
All the past behind my back 
Is a bright and blessed track ; 
Never mind ! 

Stand in patient courage still. 
Working out thy Master's will ; 
Compass good, and conquer ill ; 
Never mind ! 



NEVER MIND. 

Fight, for all their bullying boast, 
Dark temptation's evil host ; 
This is thy predestined post ; 
Never mind ! 

Be then tranquil as a dove ; 
Through these thunder-clouds above 
Shines afar the heaven of love ; 
Never mind ! 



(70) 



THE CROMLECH DU TUS, GUERNSEY.'' 



Hoary relic, stem and old, — 
Heaving huge above the mould 
Like some mammoth, lulled to sleep 
By the magic murmuring deep, 
Till those gray gigantic bones 
Gorgon time hath frowned to stones, — 
Who shall tell thine awful tale. 
Massy Cromlech, at " The Vale ? " 
Ruthless altar, hungry tomb ! 
Superstition's throne of gloom. 
Where, in black, sepulchral state. 
High the hooded Spectre sate, 
Terrible and thronged by fears. 
Brooding for a thousand years 
As a thundercloud above 
All that wretched men may love, — 
Is there no grim witness near 
That shall whisper words of fear. 
Every brother's heart to thrill. 
Every brother's blood to chili, 
While thy records are revealed 
And thy mysteries unsealed ? — 

* See an interesting paper by Mr. F. C. Lukis, in the Archae- 
ological Journal for April, 1845. 



THE CROMLECH DU TUS. 71 

Lift with Titan toil and pain, 

Lift the Ud by might and main, — 

Lift the hd and look within 

On — this charnel-house of Sin ! 

O twin brethren, how and when 

Dwelt ye in this rocky den ? 

Rise, dread martyrs ! for your bones 

Chronicle these cromlech-stones ; 

Rise, ye grisly, ghastly pair, 

— Skeletons ! how came ye there — 

Kneeling starkly side by side. 

More like life than those who died ? 

More like life ? — O, what a spell 

Of horror cowers in that cell ! 

More like life ! — Alive they went 

Into that stone tenement. 

Bound as in religious ease. 

Meekly kneeling on their knees. 

And the cruel thongs confined 

All but the distracted mind, 

That with terror raved to see, 

Woe ! how slow such death would be : 

Woe ! how slow and full of dread : 

Pining, dying, but not dead, — 

Pining, dying in the tomb. 

Drowned in gulfs of starving gloom, 

With corruption, hideous fear. 

Creeping noiselessly more near, 

While the victims slowly died, 

Linked together side by side, 



72 THE CROMLECH DU TUS. 

Till, in manacled, mad strife, 
Both had struggled out of life ! 

Yea, some idol claimed the price 
Of this living sacrifice ; 
Some grim demon's dark high priest 
Bound these slaves for Odin's feast, 
Offering up, with rites of hell. 
Human pangs to Thor or Bel ! — 

Christians, ponder on these bones ; 
Kneel around the Cromlech-stones ; 
Kneel and thank our God above 
That His name. His heart, is Love ; 
That His thirst is — not for blood. 
But — for joy and gratitude ; 
That he bids no soul be sad. 
But is glad to make us glad ; 
That he loves not man's despair. 
But delights to bless his prayer ! 



(73) 



MY CHILDREN. 



My little ones, my darling ones, my precious things of 

earth, 
How gladly do I triumph in the blessing of your birth ! 
How heartily for praises, and how earnestly for prayers, 
I yearn upon your loveliness, my dear, delightful cares ! 

children, — happy word of peace, — my jewels and 

my gold, 
My truest friends till now, and still my truest friends 
when old, 

1 will be every thing to you, your playmate and your 

guide, 
Both Mentor and Telemachus, forever at your side ! 

I will be every thing to you, your sympathizing friend, 
To teach, and help, and lead, and bless, and comfort, 

and defend ; 
O, come to me, and tell me all, and ye shall find me true, 
A brother in adversity to fight it out for you ! 

Yea, sins or follies, griefs or cares, or young affection's 

thrall. 
Fear not, for I am one with you, and I have felt them 

all; 

7 



74 MY CHILDREN. 

I will be tender, just, and kind, unwilling to reprove ; 
I will do all to bless you all by wisdom and by love. 

My little ones, delighted I review you as ye stand, 

A pretty troop of fairies and young cherubs hand in 

hand. 
And tell out all your names to be a dear, familiar 

sound. 
Wherever English hearths and hearts about the world 

abound. 

My eldest, of the speaking eyes, my Ellin, nine jem's 

old, 
Thou thoughtful, good example of the loving little fold, 
My Ellin, they shall hear of thee, fair spirit, holy child. 
The truthful and the well-resolved, the liberal and the 

mild. 

And thee, my Mary, what of thee ? — the beauty of thy 
face ? 

The coyly-pretty whims and ways that ray thee round 
with grace ? 

— O, more than these ; a dear, warm heart, that still 
must thrill and glow 

With pure affection's sunshine, and with feelings over- 
flow ! 

Thou too, my gentle five-year-old, fair Margaret the 

pearl, 
A quiet, sick, and suffering child, sweet, patient little 

girl,— 



MY CHILDREN. 75 

Yet gay withal and frolicsome at times wilt thou appear, 
And like a bell thy merry voice rings musical and clear. 

And next my Selwyn, precious boy, a glorious young 

mind, 
The sensitive, the passionate, the noble, and the kind, 
Whose light-brown locks bedropped with gold, and large 

eyes full of love. 
And generous nature, mingle well the lion and the dove. 

The last, an infant, toothless one, now prattling on my 

knee. 
Whose bland, benevolent, soft face is shining upon me ; 
Another silver star upon our calm domestic sky. 
Another seed of happy hope, dropped kindly from on 

high. 

A happy man, — be this my praise, — not riches, rank, 

or fame, — 
A happy man, with means enough, — no other lot or 

name ; 
A happy man, with you for friends, my children and my 

wife, — 
Ambition is o'ervaulted here in all that gladdens life ! 



(76) 



HENRY DE B. T. 



Hail, then, a sixth ! my doubly triple joy, 

Another blessing in a third born boy ; 

Another soul by generous Favor sent 

To teach and train for heaven through content ; 

Another second-self, with hopes like mine 

In better worlds beyond the stars to shine ; 

Another little hostage from above. 

The pledge and promise of our Father's love ! 

God guard the babe ; and cherish the young child ; 

And bless the boy with nurture wise and mild ; 

And lead the lad, and yearn upon the youth ; 

And make the man a man of trust and truth ; 

Through life and death uphold him all his days. 

And then translate him to thyself with praise ! 



(77) 



ERRATA. 



AN AUTHOR'S COMPLAINT. 



O FRIENDS and brothers, judge me not unheard ; 

Make not a man offender for a word ; 

For often have I noted seeming fault, 

That harmed my rhymes and made my reasons halt, 

Whilst all that error was some printer's sloth, 

Who, scorning rhyme and reason, slew them both. 

Be ye then liberal to your far-off friend ; 

Where garbled, guess him ; and where maimed, amend ; 

Trust him for wit, when types have marred the word, 

And wisdom too, where only blockheads erred. 



(78) 



IMPROMPTU, 

TO ONE WHO SAID THAT SHE DISLIKBD POETRY. 

Lady, thou lovest high and holy thought, 

And noble deeds, and hopes sublime or beauteous ; 
Thou lovest charities in secret wrought, 

And all things pure, and generous, and duteous : 
What then if these be dressed in robes of power. 

Triumphant words, that thrill the heart of man. 
Conquering for good beyond the flitting hour. 

With stately march, and music in the van ? 



(79) 



VENUS. 



A REPLY TO LONGFELLOW'S POEM ON MAKS, IN 
" VOICES OF THE NIGHT." 

Thou lover of the blaze of Mars, 
Come out with me to-night ; 

For I have found, among the stars, 
A name of nobler light. 

Thy boast of the unconquered Mind, 
The strong, the stern, the still ; 

Mine of the happier Heart, resigned 
To Wisdom's holy will. 

They call my star by beauty's name, 
The gentle Queen of Love ; 

And look ! how fair its tender flame 
Is flickering above ! 

star of peace, O torch of hope, 

I hail thy precious ray — 
A diamond on the ebon cope, 

To shine the dark away. 



80 VENUS. 

Within my heart there is no light 
But Cometh from above ; 

I give the first watch of the night 
To the sweet planet Love ; — 

The star of Charity and Truth, 
Of cheerful thoughts and sage, 

The lamp to guide my steps in youth, 
And gladden mine old age. 

O brother, yield ; thy fiery Mars, 
For all his mailed might, 

Is not so strong among the stars 
As mine, the Queen of Night ; — 

A Queen to shine all nights away. 
And make the morn more clear ; 

Contentment gilding every day — 
There is no twilight here. 

Yes ; in a trial world like this, 
Where all that comes — is sent, 

Learn how divine a thing it is 
To smile and be content. 



( 81 ) 



"THE WARM, YOUNG HEART." 



FOR MUSIC. 



A BEAUTIFUL facG, and a form of grace, 

Were a pleasant sight to see ; 
And gold, and gems, and diadems. 

Right excellent they be ; 
But beauty and gold, though both be untold. 

Are things of a worldly mart ; 
The wealth that I prize above ingots or eyes 

Is a heart, — a warm, young heart. 

O face most fair, shall thy beauty compare 
With affection's glowing light ? 

riches and pride, how pale ye beside 
Love's wealth, serene and bright ! 

1 spurn thee away, as a cold thing of clay, 

Though gilded and carved thou art ; 
For all that I prize, in its smiles and its sighs, 
Is a heart, — a warm, young heart. 



(82) 



A CONSECRATION. 

October 29, 1847. 

Like some fair Nun, the pious and the chaste, 

Shalford, thy new-born temple stands serene, 
Modestly decked in pure old English taste, 

The village beauty of thy tranquil scene ; 
And we to-day have made religious haste 
To see thee wedded to thy heavenly Spouse, 

Kneeling in unison of praise and prayer, 
To help the offering of thy maiden vows. 

Hark ! what a thrilling utterance is there ! — 
" Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates," — 

As God's high priest, with apostolic care, 
To Him this tent of glory consecrates : 

Good work, to be remembered for all time ! 

The seed of mercies endless and sublime ! 

" Come in, thou King of Glory," yea, come in ; 

Rest here awhile, great Conqueror for good ; 
Bless thou this font to cleanse from Adam's sin ; 

Spread thou this table with celestial food ; 

And, kindled by thy grace to gratitude. 
May thousands here eternal treasures win. 

As, hither led, from time to time, with joy 
They seek their Father. Lo ! before mine eyes 
Visions and promises of good arise ; — 



A CONSECRATION. 

The tender babe baptized ; the stripHng boy 
Confirmed for godliness ; the maid and youth 

Wedded in love ; the man mature made wise ; 
The elder taught in righteousness and truth ; 

And each an heir of life before he dies. 



(84) 



THE THANKSGIVING HYMN AND CHANT 

FOR THE HARVEST HOME OF 1847. 

O NATION, Christian nation, 

Lift high the hymn of praise ; 
The God of our Salvation 

Is love in all his ways ; 
He blesseth us, and feedeth 

Every creature of his hand, 
To succor him that needeth 

And to gladden all the land ! 

Rejoice, ye happy people, 

And peal the changing chime 
From every belfried steeple 

In symphony sublime : 
Let cottage and let palace 

Be thankful and rejoice. 
And woods, and hills, and valleys, 

Reecho the glad voice ! 

From glen, and plain, and city. 

Let gracious incense rise ; 
The Lord of life in pity 

Hath heard His creatures' cries : 



THANKSGIVING HYMN. 85 

And where in fierce oppressing 
Stalked fever, fear, and dearth, 

He pours a triple blessing 
To fill and fatten earth ! 

Gaze round in deep emotion : 

The rich and ripened grain 
Is like a golden ocean 

Becalmed upon the plain ; 
And we, who late were weepers 

Lest judgment should destroy. 
Now sing, because the reapers 

Are come again with joy ! 

O, praise the hand that giveth — 

And giveth evermore — 
To every soul that liveth 

Abundance flowing o'er ! 
For every soul He filleth 

With manna from above. 
And over all distilleth 

The unction of His love. 

Then gather, Christians, gather 

To praise with heart and voice 
The good Almighty Father, 

Who biddeth you rejoice ; 
For he hath turned the sadness 

Of his children into mirth. 
And we will sing with gladness 

The har\^est-home of earth ! 



86 CHANT FOR THE HARVEST HOME OF 1847. 



O, BLESS the God of harvest, praise him through the land, 
Thank him for his precious gifts, liis help, and liberal 

love; 
Praise him for the fields that have rendered up their 

riches. 
And, dressed in sunny stubbles, take their sabbath after 

toil ; 
Praise him for the close-shorn plains, and uplands lying 

bare. 
And meadows, where the sweet-breathed hay was 

stacked in early summer; 
Praise him for the wheat-sheaves, gathered safely into 

barn. 
And scattering now their golden drops beneath the 

sounding flail ; 
Praise liim for the barley-mow, a little hill of sweetness ; 
Praise him for the clustering hop, to add its fmgrant 

bitter ; 
Praise him for the wholesome root, that fattened in the 

furrow ; 
Praise him for the mellow fruits that bend the groaning 

bough ; 
For blessings on thy basket, and for blessings on thy 

store, 
For skill and labor prospered well, by gracious suns and 

showers. 
For mercies on the home, and for comforts on the 

hearth, 
O happy heart of this broad land, praise the God of 

harvest. 



CHANT FOR THE HARVEST HOME OF 1847. 87 

All ye that have no tongue to praise, we will praise 

Him for you, 
And offer on our kindling souls the tribute of your 

thanks : 
Trees, and shrubs, and the multitude of herbs, glad- 

dening the eyes with verdure, 
For all your leaves, and flowers, and fruits, we praise 

the God of harvest ! 
Birds, and beetles in the dust, and insects flitting on 

the air. 
And ye that swim the waters in your scaly coats of 

mail. 
And steers, resting after labor, and timorous flocks afold, 
And generous horses, yoked in teams to draw the 

creaking wains. 
For all your lives, and every pleasure solacing that lot, 
Your sleep, and food, and animal peace, we praise the 

God of harvest ! 
And ye, O some who never prayed, and therefore can- 
not praise, — 
Poor darkling sons of care, and toil, and unillumined 

night, 
Who rose betimes, but did not ask a blessing on your 

work. 
Who lay down late, but rendered no thank-offering foi 

that blessing 
Which all unsought He sent, and all unknown ye 

gathered, — 
Alas ! for you, and in your stead, we praise the God of 

harvest ! 



88 CHANT FOR THE HARVEST HOME OF 1847. 

O ye famine-stricken glens, whose children shrieked for 

bread, 
And noisome alleys of the town where fever fed on 

hunger, — 
O ye children of despair, bitterly bewailing Erin, 
Come and join my cheerful praise, for God hath an- 
swered prayer : 
Praise Him for the better hopes, and signs of better 

times, 
Unity, gratitude, contentment ; industry, peace, and 

plenty ; 
Bless Him that his chastening rod is now the sceptre 

of forgiveness. 
And in your joy remember well to praise the God of 

harvest ! 

Come, come along with me, and swell this grateful 

song. 
Ye nobler hearts, old England's own, her children of 

the soil : 
All ye that sowed the seed in faith, with those who 

reaped in joy. 
And he that drove the plough afield, with all the scat- 
tered gleaners. 
And maids who milk the lowing kine, and boys that tend 

the sheep, 
And men that load the sluggish wain, or neatly thatch 

the rick, — 
Shout and sing for happiness of heart, nor stint your 

thrilling cheers, 



CHANT FOR THE HARVEST HOME OF 1847. 89 

But make the merry farmer's hall resound with glad 

rejoicings, 
And let him spread the hearty feast for joy at harvest 

home, 
And join this cheerful song of praise, — to bless the 

God of harvest ! 



( 90 ) 



M. T. 



Forgotten ? — not forgotten, kind, good man, 

Though seldom fully prized at thy great worth : - 
I will embalm thy memory as I can. 

And send this blessing to the ends of earth ! 
For thou wert all things kindly unto all, 

Benevolent and liberal from birth, 
Ever responsive to affection's call. 

And full of care for others, — full of care — 
Weary with others' burdens, generous heart. 

And yet thine own too little strong to bear : 
Father ! I owe thee all, and cannot pay 

The happy debt, until I too depart ; 
Then will I bless and love it all away 

In that bright world, my Father, where thou art ! 



(91 ) 



TWO PSALMS. 
I. The Nineteenth. 

Heaven declares its Maker's glory, 

And the firmament His might ; 
Day to day the wondrous story 

Echoes on, and night to night : 
All is silence, yet Creation 

Knows and hears that voiceless speech 
Which to eveiy tribe and nation 

Doth their Maker's glory teach. 

From his chamber bright in heaven, 

Lo, the bridegroom of the earth 
Gladness by his smile hath given. 

And awakes the morn to mirth : 
Not less full of life and pleasure 

Is God's truth, nor less complete ; 
'Tis more precious than all treasure. 

Than the honeycomb more sweet. 

It rejoices, heals, and teaches, 

Ever holy, just, and good ; 
To the inmost feeling reaches. 

And leads up the heart to God : 



92 PSALM XIX. 

Warned by that, thy servant turneth 
To the path that tends to bhss ; 

Yet, who all his faults discerneth ? 
Cleanse me, if I err in this. 

Let not pride be ruler in me. 

But deliver, guide, forgive ; 
Thus, corruption quenched within me, 

I shall be upright and live. 
Let my words and meditation, 

Ever pleasing in thy sight. 
Meet with gracious acceptation. 

My Redeemer and my Might ! 



n. The Twentieth. 



God in time of trouble hear thee. 

And the name of Jacob's Lord, 
From his sanctuary near thee. 

Out of Zion help afford ; 
Crown thy sacrifice with fire ; 

All thy gifts remember still ; 
Grant thee all thy heart's desire, 

And thy choicest wish fulfil. 



PSALM XX. 93 

We will joy in thy salvation, 

And will set our banners high, 
In our God — thy supplication 

Be accomplished at thy cry : 
Now I know the Lord from heaven 

Saveth still his Christ from harm ; 
Now to Him will strength be given 

By the might of his right arm. 

Some in chariots, some in horses, 

We in God Jehovah, trust ; 
And, while He our sure Resource is. 

They are fallen in the dust : 
Save, Jehovah, save and hear us, 

King of gloiy, King of might ; 
When we call, be ever near us, — 

Ever for thy servants fight. 



(94) 



CONFESSION. 



Alas ! how many vain and bitter things 

My zeal, and pride, and natural haste, have wrought ! 

Yea, thou my soul, by word, and deed, and thought, 
The curse of selfishness hath scorched thy wings ; 

There is a fire within, — I feel it now, — 
A smouldering mass of strong imaginings. 

That heat my heart, and burn upon my brow, 
And vent their hissing lava on my tongue. 

Scathing, unsparing ; yet my will is just ; 
My wrath is ever quickened by a wrong ; 

I flame to strike oppressors to the dust, 

To crush the cruel, and confound the base, — 

To welcome insolence with calm disgust, 

And brand the scofFer's forehead with disgrace. 



(95) 



A SONG. 



Ah,. Memory ! why reproach me so 

With shadows of the past ? 
The thrilling hopes of long ago, 

That came and went so fast ? 
Ye tender tones of that dear voice, 

Ye looks of those loved eyes. 
Return, and bid my heart rejoice, 

For true love never dies. 

Rejoice ? O word of hope ! I may 

When those indeed return ; 
For looks and tones so passed away 

In solitude I yearn ; 
Let others fancy I forget 

The light of those dear eyes, — 
I love, O, how I love thee yet ! 

For true love never dies. 



( 96 ) 



CHEER UP! 



FOR MUSIC. 



Never go gloomily, man with a mind ; 

Hope is a better companion than fear ; 
Providence, ever benignant and kind, 

Gives with a smile what you take with a tear ; 
All will be right ; 
Look to the light ; 
Morning is ever the daughter of night ; 
All that was black will be all that is bright ; 
Cheerily, cheerily, then ! cheer up ! 

Many a foe is a friend in disguise ; 

Many a sorrow a blessing most true. 
Helping the heart to be happy and wise 

With lore ever precious and joys ever new ; 
Stand in the van ; 
Strive like a man ; 
This is the bravest and cleverest plan ; 
Trusting in God, while you do what you can, 
Cheerily, cheerily, then ! cheer up ! 



(97) 



" TOGETHER." 



FOR MUSIC. 



The elm-tree of old felt lonely and cold 

When wintry winds blew high ; 
And, looking below, he saw, in the snow, 

The ivy wandering nigh ; 
And he said, " Come, twine with those tendrils of 
thine 

My scathed and frozen form ; 
For, heart and hand, together we'll stand, 

And mock at the baffled storm. 

Ha, ha ! together." 

And so, when grief is withering the leaf. 

And checking hope's young flower, — 
And frosts do bite with their teeth so white, 

In disappointment's hour, — 
Though it might overwhelm either ivy or elm. 

If alone each stood the strife, — 
If heart and hand together they stand. 

They may laugh at the troubles of life, 
Ha, ha ! together. 



(98) 



FRIENDS. 



I CANNOT move a mile upon this earth, 

I could not, did I walk from end to end, 
But there I find a heart of wit and worth. 

Some gracious spirit to be hailed a friend. 
0, there are frequent angels unawares. 

And many have I met upon my way. 
Kind Christian souls, to make me rich with prayers, 

Whilst in like coin their mercies I repay ; 
And oft the sun of praise hath lit mine eyes, 

Generous praise and just encouragement. 
From some who say I help them to be wise, 

And teach them to be happy in content : 
Ah, soul, rejoice ! for thou hast thickly sown 
The living world with friendships all thine own. 



(99) 



A GREETING. 



It were not well to vex thee with my pmises, 

Yet am I quick to read thy gifts aright ; 
Loving, sincere, and wise, — in three best phases 

Young heart, I note thy characters of light : 
Spirits are keen to make such instant guesses, 

For time is nothing to the Soul that lives ; 
Therefore my spirit thy good spirit blesses, 

Therefore my Mind its cordial greeting gives, - 
Its greeting ? — of a moment, sad to tell. 
For all my greeting is a true Farewell ! 



( 100) 



HORACE'S PHILOSOPHY, in. 29. 



Wisely for us within night's sable veil 
God hides the future ; and, if men turn pale, 
For dread distrusting, laughs their fear to scorn. 

For thee, the present calmly order well : 
All else as on a river's tide is borne. 
Now flowing peaceful to the Tuscan Sea 

Down the mid-channel on a gentle swell, 
Now, as the hoarse, fierce mandate of the flood 
Stirs up the quiet stream, time-eaten rocks 
Go hurrying down, with houses, herds and flocks, 
And echoes from the mountain and the wood. 
He stands alone glad, self-possessed, and free, 
Who, grateful for to-day, can say, I live ; 
To-morrow let my Father take or give, — 

II. 
As He may will, not I — with dark or light 
Let God ordain the morrow, noon or night. 
He, even He, can never render vain 
The past behind me ; nor bring back again 
What any transient hour has once made fact. 
Fortune, rejoicing in each cruel act. 
And playing frowardly a saucy game. 
Dispenses changeful and uncertain fame, 



Horace's philosophy, hi. 29. 101 

Now kind to me, and now to some beside. 

I praise her here ; but if it should betide 

She spreads her wings for flight, I hold no more 

The good she gave, but in mine honest worth, 

Clad like a man, go honorably forth 
To seek th' undowried portion of the poor. 



( 102) 



"THE LAST TIME.' 



Another year ? another year ! 

Who dare depend on other years ? 
The judgment of this world is near, 

And all its children faint for fears : 
Famine, pestilence, and war, 

Mixed with praises, prayers, and tears. 
Civil strife and social jar. 

Spurred by pen, and stirred by sword, 
Herald Him who comes from far 
In Elijah's fiery car. 

Our own returning Lord ! 

Look around, — the nations quail ! 

All the elements of ill 
Crowd like locusts on the gale, 

And the dark horizon fill : 
Woe to earth, and all her seed ! 

Woe, they run to ruin still : — 
He that runneth well may read 

Texts of truth the times afford, 
How, in earth's extremest need, 
Cometh, cometh soon indeed 

Our own redeeming Lord ! 



" THE LAST TIME." 

Lo, the marvels passing strange 

Every teeming hour brings, 
Daily turns, with sudden change, 

The kaleidoscope of things ; 
But the Ruler, just and wise. 

Orders all, as King of kings, — 
Hark ! His thunders shake the skies ! 

Lo ! His vials are outpoured ! 
Earth in bitter travail lies, 
And creation groans and cries 

For our expected Lord ! 

Stand in courage, stand in faith ! 

Tremble not as others may ; 
He that conquers hell and death 

Is the friend of those who pray : 
And in this world's destined woe, 

He will save his own alway 
From the trial's furnace glow, — 

Till the harvest all is stored, 
Rescued from each earthly foe 
And the terrible ones below 

By our avenging Lord ! 

Yea, come quickly ! Savior, come ! 

Take us to thy glorious rest ; 
All thy children yearn for home. 

Home, the heaven of thy breast ! 
Help, with instant, gracious aid ! 

That, in just assurance blest. 
We may watch — nor feel afraid, 



103 



104 "the last time." 

Every warning in thy word, 
Signs and tokens, all arrayed 
In proof of that for which we prayed, 

The coming of the Lord ! 



( 105) 



THE POET'S WEALTH. 



I NUMBER you by thousands, unseen friends, 

And dearly precious is your love to me ; 

Yea, what a goodly company ye be ! 
Far as the noble brotherhood extends 

Of Saxon hearts and tongues o'er land and sea : 
How rich am I in love ! — the sweet amends 
For all whatever little else of pain 

Some few unkindly cause ; — most rich in love, 
From mine own home to earth's remotest ends : 
Let me, then, count my store, my glorious gain, — 
This wealth, that my poor merit far transcends ; 

Your loving kindness, echoing from above 
The Highest Blessing on my works and ways, 
Ei) ^oCXs d:^ct^£, my Father's praise. 

Yea, let me thank you ; let my heart outpour 

Unbidden notes of honest gratitude 

To all whose yearnings follow me with good, — 
Loving my mhid and all its humble store ; 

O generous friends ! a cordial multitude 
Hived in the West, upon that busy shore 

Where fair Columbia, Britain's child, is throned 

Imperial, yet with empire all unowned, — 
O, generous friends ! Another cordial band 

From far Australia to the Arctic Seas, 



106 THE poet's wealth. 

And crowds around me in mine own dear land — 

How, how to thank for mercies rich as these ? 
Lo, let me stand and bless from East to West, 
From North to South, — because I thus am blest ! 

Ay, blest, indeed, above the lot of men, 

And rich in joys that reach the true sublime : 

For that the magic music of my pen 

Hath won such wealth of love in every clime, 
And still shall win such treasure for all time, 

Therefore my soul is glad. Judge me, my friends. 
Is not the poet wealthier in his joys 
Than Attalus with all his golden toys ? 

And, as his growing dynasty extends 

To children's children, reigning in the mind, 

Is he not great — a monarch of his kind ? 

Ah me ! not so ; this thought of pride destroys ; 

Give God the praise ; His blessing sends this store 

Of unseen friends by thousands evermore. 



0® K 



RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY CHARLES H. PEIRCE. 



FROVXlRBIiLI. PHZIiOSOFHV. 

By Martin Farquar Tupper. Fine edition, in 
various styles of binding. 1 vol. 16mo., with a 
portrait. 

Few English republications have enjoyed the pop- 
ularity of this interesting volume ; chaste and vigo- 
rous in style, original and vivid in thought, full of 
the soul of poetry, it commends itself to every read- 
er fond of Stirling good sense, in connection with 
regular measures. 

THE POETRTT OF LIFE. 

By William B. Tappan. With a fine steel engrav- 
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the most beautiful gift-books of the season. Mr. 
Tappan's poetical talents are well known and 
highly appreciated, especially by the religious 
public. 

THE S2701V STORKS. 

A Christmas Story. By Mrs. Gore. Illustrated 
by George Cruikshank. 

SON" QUIXOTE. 

This most entertaining and ever instructive bur- 
lesque, can never lose its charm upon all lovers of 
sprightly literature. The present edition is elegant- 
ly printed, and illustrated with splendid copperplates. 



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